4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Julia
I wake where I spent the night, sprawled awkwardly on the couch, surrounded by pillows and the books I could reach without moving.
My body feels like one massive bruise, with special attention to my ribs, ankle, and wrist. The paramedics’ painkillers have worn off, leaving me acutely aware of every injury.
Rhazgar lifting that enormous bookcase as if it weighed nothing keeps replaying whether I want it to or not. The contained power in his movements, the focus in his eyes when our faces were unexpectedly close…
I find myself staring at the wall that separates our condos.
A gentle knock at my door interrupts thoughts I’d rather not examine too closely.
“Julia?” Rhazgar’s deep voice carries easily through the patched-up door. “I’ve brought your morning meal.”
“Come in,” I call, then wince at the strain on my ribs. I gave him my key last night so he could get in this morning.
The door swings inward, revealing Rhazgar carrying a large ceramic pot with both hands. Steam rises from it, bringing an aroma so complex and enticing that my stomach immediately growls in response.
“Good morning,” he says formally, ducking his head to clear the doorframe. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I lost a fight with a library,” I admit, attempting to sit up straighter and immediately regretting it.
“The books were clearly the aggressors,” he observes, setting down his healing preparations.
“Vicious literary ambush,” I agree, wincing as I shift position. “The encyclopedias are the worst. So much knowledge, so little mercy.”
“Knowledge often comes at a price.”
“Usually just the library late fee, not bodily harm,” I counter.
He tips his head slightly. “Perhaps you should consider collecting smaller books.”
“Paperbacks only from now on,” I solemnly promise with my hand in a Girl Scout promise pose. “Though I’m not sure my professional reputation as a librarian could survive the scandal.”
“Academic compromise in the name of physical safety,” he suggests. “A reasonable adaptation.”
“Says the seven-foot orc who could probably bench press my entire collection without breaking a sweat.”
“I wouldn’t recommend testing that theory.”
Why is it that the deep tone in his last statement makes me picture exactly how this big, green orc might bench press me?
He sets the pot down on my coffee table and approaches, his movements unhurried. “May I?” he asks, gesturing toward my injured ankle.
When I nod, he kneels beside the couch, his massive form somehow making the movement look graceful. With careful, exacting attention, his fingers assess the swelling around my ankle, his touch clinical yet causing my pulse to quicken for reasons entirely unrelated to pain.
His large hand could completely encircle my ankle, the contrast between his green skin and mine sending an inappropriate shiver up my leg. I bite my lip, fighting the sudden urge to know how those strong, thick fingers would feel trailing higher up my calf, my thigh…
“The inflammation increased overnight,” he observes with a slight frown. “Expected, but not ideal.”
“The ice pack melted,” I explain sheepishly. “And I couldn’t get up to refresh it.”
His expression softens slightly. “The healing broth will help with inflammation. It should be consumed while hot. I’ll put the ice pack in your freezer and buy you two more so you can alternate them.”
He moves to my kitchen like he’s done it a dozen times already, retrieving a bowl and spoon. The bowl looks comically small in his large hands as he ladles a portion of the steaming liquid.
“This is WarmHearth healing broth,” he explains, setting it on a tray beside me. “A traditional remedy for injuries involving bone and tissue damage.”
I lean forward slightly, inhaling the complex aroma. “It smells incredible. What’s in it?”
“Bone marrow for mineral strength. Seven sacred herbs with anti-inflammatory properties. Volcanic salt for proper mineral balance.” His voice takes on a rhythmic quality, as if reciting something memorized long ago.
“It must simmer for twelve hours under gradually decreasing heat to properly extract the healing elements.”
My researcher’s heart beats faster at this glimpse into orc culinary traditions, then his words sink in. “Twelve hours? You must have started this right after leaving last night.”
Something flickers across his stoic features, his mouth curving just enough to reveal the edge of one polished tusk.
The sight sends an unexpected jolt of attraction through me.
I’ve never found tusks appealing before, but on him, they’re oddly sensual, especially when paired with those intelligent eyes currently fixed on my face with single-minded focus.
“Healing preparations begin when the need is recognized.” A pause. “It is what my grandmother would have done.”
I take a sip of the broth and nearly gasp as the flavors explode across my tongue: earthy, savory, with an undercurrent of something I have no name for, something that sinks into my bones even as I swallow.
The heat of it spreads down my throat, curling low, and I catch myself thinking about parts of my body that have nothing to do with healing.
When I look up, I catch Rhazgar watching me with intense focus.
His gaze follows the movement of my throat as I swallow, and something tightens low in my belly.
“This is… extraordinary.” I hope he doesn’t know what I was actually referring to, because it had nothing to do with food.
“You find it acceptable?” he asks.
“Acceptable?” I repeat, taking another sip. “This makes every soup I’ve ever had taste like something strained through a sock.”
“Human cuisine has… different priorities,” he replies diplomatically.
“You mean it can be boring?” I challenge with a smile.
He considers this, head tilted. “I would not presume to critique another culture’s culinary traditions.”
“But if you did?” I press.
“I might suggest humans could expand their flavor palettes,” he admits, a surprising hint of dry humor in his voice.
“Fair assessment. Please tell me you’re not judging me for the ramen packages in my cupboard.”
His expression remains neutral, but his eyes betray him. “I make no judgments. Though I did notice they expired two years ago.”
“You were snooping in my cupboards?” I gasp in mock offense.
“Security assessment,” he counters smoothly.
“Of my emergency food stash?”
“Nothing about two-year-old noodles qualifies as ‘emergency-ready’,” he notes.
As I continue drinking the soothing broth, I notice an immediate warming sensation spreading to my extremities. The throbbing in my ankle and wrist seems to recede slightly, and breathing becomes a fraction easier.
“I feel better already,” I marvel. “Is that even possible?”
“The initial effects begin quickly,” he explains, his posture relaxing slightly. “Full healing benefits require regular consumption over several days.”
“So these herbs from your world,” I say, indicating the empty bowl, “they all have healing properties?”
“Most serve multiple purposes.” He counts them off on one large finger. “Protection, healing, celebration.”
“And what would be the orc prescription for ‘embarrassed myself by nearly dying under my own books’?”
He considers this with endearing seriousness before responding. “Back on our homeworld, it would be thunder leaf steeped with pride-flower. Traditional remedy for warriors who fall from their mounts during parades.”
“That’s oddly specific,” I laugh. “Does it happen often?”
“Not since the implementation of the pre-parade dignity preservation ritual.”
“Which is?”
“Securing the warrior to their mount with unbreakable bindings while claiming it’s for ceremonial purposes.”
I stare at him for a beat before realizing. “You’re joking.”
“WarmHearth humor. Rare but potent,” he says, his expression hardly changing, though his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners.
I’m about to ask more questions when a thunderous pounding at my door makes me jump, sending a fresh bolt of pain through my ribs.
“RHAZGAR! ARE YOU IN THERE?” The booming voice is unmistakably orc, but the opposite of Rhazgar’s measured tones.
Rhazgar sighs, a surprisingly human gesture of exasperation. “Grulk,” he explains to me, before calling out, “Yes, I am here.”
The door flies open without further ceremony, revealing an orc in maintenance coveralls, his green skin a shade lighter than Rhazgar’s, his build stockier, his tusks prominent against his wide grin. His eyes lock onto me, then flick to the bowl in my hands, and his grin splits wider.
“Ah! The healing broth!” He turns to Rhazgar. “You cooked it yourself? With your own hands?” He sounds delighted.
“Grulk,” Rhazgar says with strained patience, “Julia Whitaker suffered injuries from a falling bookcase. I am providing traditional assistance.”
“Traditional, yes.” Grulk strides in, already eyeing the damaged door. “Very traditional for a WarmHearth warrior to bring healing broth to an injured female. HammerFall clan approves.”
I look between the two orcs. “You know each other?”
“All orcs know each other.” Grulk doesn’t wait for Rhazgar to answer. “But Rhazgar and I share a special bond. I tease, he growls. Perfect friendship.”
“Grulk is HammerFall Clan,” Rhazgar explains. “He serves as maintenance supervisor for an elementary school and handles part-time work here as needed.”
He sets to the door, fast and unbothered, talking as he works. “Rhazgar’s healing broth is famous among the clans. His grandmother was a master healer, taught him all the secret recipes. You are very lucky.”
“There is no bond,” Rhazgar says, his voice dropping to a register that makes my furniture vibrate slightly. “I am providing neighborly assistance as tradition requires.”
“If you say so.” Grulk doesn’t push it, already moving to the bookcase. “I’ll check what Rhazgar already stabilized. Four hands are better than two for the bracket.”
Rhazgar moves closer, lowering his voice. “I apologize for Grulk’s enthusiasm. HammerFall are known for their directness.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “He seems nice, if a bit overwhelming.”
“Nice is one word for it,” Rhazgar mutters, dry humor surprising me.
Grulk straightens from the bracket, and for a second the grin drops. “You did good,” he says to Rhazgar, quieter than anything else he’s said since walking in. “Most would just leave the pot at the door. You stayed.”
Then, before either of us can react, the grin is back. “Door’s fixed! Bookcase secured!” He claps the frame once, testing it. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”
He claps Rhazgar on the shoulder hard enough to stagger a human, gathers his tools, and leaves, taking the noise with him.
“He’s… energetic,” I observe.
“Grulk means well,” Rhazgar says, sounding pained. “But subtlety is not a HammerFall virtue.”
“I gathered that,” I say, unable to suppress a smile. “Is he always so…”
“Interfering? Yes,” Rhazgar finishes for me, a hint of that same dry humor returning.
We share another moment of understanding, and I find myself relaxing further into the cushions, the combination of the healing broth and unexpected laughter easing my discomfort.
“You should rest now,” Rhazgar says, gathering the empty bowl and spoon. “I’ll return at midday with the next preparation.” He retrieves a baggie from his pocket and sets it on my coffee table. “Here is some more moon willow. Chew it if you have breakthrough pain from the meds the medics left you.”
“Thank you,” I say, suddenly realizing how much I’m looking forward to his return. “For everything.”
He pauses at the door, his expression softening slightly. “It is my honor to assist in your recovery, Julia Whitaker.”
As he leaves, I sink back into my cushions, feeling better than I have any right to, given the severity of my injuries. Whether it’s the magical properties of orc healing broth or simply the knowledge that someone cares enough to prepare it, I’m not entirely sure.
I reach for my phone and text Eliza asking her to take me to urgent care. She’s been calling since last night and I’ve been putting her off, but the paramedics were clear about follow-up imaging, and I can’t put it off indefinitely. Her reply comes in under a minute: on my way, don’t argue.
While I wait, I reach for my notebook and document everything I can remember about the healing broth while the experience is still fresh. After all, I am still a librarian and cultural preservationist, even if I’m temporarily confined to my couch.
Eliza arrives forty minutes later, takes one look at me, and begins fussing like she’s been waiting for an excuse.
She brought crutches. Using one on my right side so I don’t put weight on the injured ankle, I’m able to painfully but urgently make it to the bathroom, my ribs vehemently protesting the whole way.
Thank goodness it was my non-dominant wrist and opposite ankle, or I’d never manage.
With Eliza’s help I’m able to change into some fresh clothes.
The urgent care visit takes most of the morning.
She stays the whole time, which I pretend to find unnecessary and am privately very grateful for.
The imaging confirms what the paramedics suspected.
Nothing alarming. The wrist is sprained, not cracked, just rest, follow-up care, and patience, all of which I was already doing my best to manage.
Rhazgar knocks at precisely one o’clock with the midday preparation.
I tell him about the urgent care visit. He listens without interrupting, asks two direct questions about the imaging results, and then adjusts the pillow beneath my wrist. The brace has been repositioned by the urgent care doctor and he notices immediately, settling it into a slightly better angle before turning to the preparation.
“Good,” he says simply. And somehow that single word carries more relief than an entire speech would have.
He sets the broth container on the table and then, without comment, produces something wrapped in a kitchen towel: flatbread, still warm, the edges darkened from a dry pan, folded around something dense and savory.
“Braised beef,” he says, when he sees me looking.
“Slow-cooked. The broth addresses inflammation. This addresses the fact that you have not eaten a real meal since yesterday.” I don’t argue.
The flatbread and meat are extraordinary, and I eat all of it.
What I do know is that my disaster of a bookcase collapse has created an unexpected bridge between my world and Rhazgar’s, and despite Grulk’s complete lack of subtlety, I find myself eager to see where that bridge might lead.
And if my professional interest happens to align with my growing personal fascination with the serious orc next door, well, that’s just efficient research methodology.